Guns and Roses
by Pegasus86
Summary: A wilderness, of outlaws and vagrants, a no-man's land that swallowed up those ignorant enough to underestimate it. Scavengers, gunslingers, murderers… this was their realm.
1. Prologue - Strung Up

**_A/N: Okay I can't believe I'm doing this, I must be officially crazy._**

 ** _I have been sitting on this little firecracker for a few months now. I had the idea for a Caryl story set in the Old West last year, after someone photoshopped Carol and Daryl wearing sombreros and my hunt began for a Western. I couldn't find one so I decided to write one and it just ran away from me. Then the prompts for Nine Lives AU Prompt-a-thon came up and I was both terrified and excited to see an Old West prompt. I really had no intentions of posting this because a) I am horribly unreliable muse-wise sometimes so can't guarantee regular updates, b) because it is unfinished and I have never done the 'post as you write' thing and c) I don't have ALL the plot details finalised yet. But I just thought WHAT THE HELL *throws caution to the wind* So I'm going into this literally blindfolded lol. I have a few chapters done but you will need to wait for them! I hope you'll all join me and some of our faves on a wild ride through the west, where the lands are unforgiving and harsh, and nothing is what it seems._**

 ** _I truly hope you enjoy this one. I'm excited to be writing another multi-chap. Let's see where this wind blows us!_**

 _ **My everlasting thanks to Emily (kaoscraze82) for being my long suffering friend and beta. Also to Alli, Meeshie, Fairies Masquerade and lovesdaryl for your encouragement.** _

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_Prologue – Strung Up_

The wind gusted over the barren dunes, sweeping dust up in great clouds that all but obscured the eerie moonlit wasteland. A hooded rider raised a gloved hand to provide some protection against the sharp bite of the sand as it whipped viciously through the night.

There were six of them, gathered under a tree in front of a pinto, head slung low, grinding its bit lazily as its rider awaited his fate. His hands were tied behind his back, leaving no means of protection from the hostile desert atmosphere. The man's face glittered under the light of the moon, streaked with blood and sweat. A tall man with an eyepatch over one eye held a length of rope in his hand: he hurled it over a low bough and turned to mutter something to another man, dressed all in black. The other man nodded and took the rope, reaching up and momentarily knotting it around the pommel of his huge mount's saddle.

Watching, waiting. They became the same thing, alone in the dark, in the solitary moan of the wind. Just as the black of night left nowhere untouched, time seemed to entwine with it, stretching on, and on. If it could speak, the landscape would be loath to give up the abyss of secrets and lies that swirled in the grains whispering on the wind. This whole god forsaken place felt haunted to most. To the lone rider, it was nothing more than water off a duck's back - such unforgiving places instilled no fear. To one who had spent life wandering the plains, picking off vagabonds as they required picking, it was home.

The rider watched from behind a forlorn, weather beaten shack that had been someone's home at some point. It lay abandoned, like the inhabitants had been plucked from the supper table, leaving only shadows of stories that would never be told. Hides that once had been left out in the sun to dry flapped pitifully, worn thin and holey by the unrepentant, abrasive gust. The rider turned to acknowledge a snort from the mount lazing nearby, underneath the meagre rustle of dead, crispy foliage. The wind calmed a little, and the men's voices carried better on the breeze.

"So it's finally come down to this. I have to say, I'm disappointed. You weren't as hard to find as I thought you'd be. Almost takes the fun out of it."

"Out of what? Look mister what's the idea of draggin' me outta my bed an-"

"You better shut yer mouth," the man in black growled through his teeth.

"Oh no, let the man speak, Brother," the man with one eye crooned. "I'm eager to hear what secrets he's been keepin' under his hat."

"I already told ya," the prisoner grunted, struggling against his bonds, "I don't know nothin', ya got the wrong man."

"See, I don't believe ya," the man drawled, giving a nod to his associate who led his horse forward a step, tightening the slack on the rope, "…and as any of my good friends here will tell ya, I can't abide liars. So… that presents us with a bit of a problem, doesn't it?"

The man on the horse panted frantically, his eyes darting between each of the six men like a cornered dog. The group seemed unmoved by his panic, loitering with distinct apathy and boredom as they watched him sweat under duress. They had been witness to such events many times, so many that a condemned man's pleas of terror stirred no sympathy.

"I've got eyes everywhere and they been followin' you for a while. Now, I _know_ you ain't tellin' us all you know. Where _is_ he?"

The man on the horse let out a strained growl as the rope tightened around his throat. "For the last time… I don't know nothin'… 'bout nobody, please let me go!"

The man with one eye smiled, the kind of rotten smile that could prickle the skin and sour milk. The prisoner balked, clearly disturbed and suddenly afraid on a different level, as the realisation dawned on him. He was pleading to soulless eyes that didn't care if he lived or died.

"Look, please, I don't know who you thi-"

"Don't be a fool my friend," the one eyed man said icily. "Make no mistake. We _will_ find him. He can't hide forever. You can make the outcome a little less ugly if you just tell us where."

The rider struggled for breath against the ever tightening coil. He didn't answer, and the man in black moved his horse forward another step, increasing the tension on the rope. The rider gave out a startled grunt, and the man with one eye took a step towards him, the humour now gone from his face. He visibly stiffened, grabbing the rider's leg and spitting his words out like some riled viper.

"I'm runnin' out of patience. Last chance!"

There wasn't much time. The hooded rider mounted quickly.

"I… alr… plghhh…"

"You're a liar, and now you'll pay a liar's price."

Standing up in the stirrups to take one last look, and knowing that before long the men's attention would be drawn, the rider yanked the mount around, stirring up a ghostly haze left hanging under the pale glow of the moon.

With the slap of a rump and a startled whinny, the man on the horse was left hanging too.


	2. Chapter One - Crow Bait

**Chapter One – Crow Bait**

 _A/N: Well yeehaw guys and gals! Here we are at the start of another adventure which I hope you'll join me for. This has been a long time in the works. I've got a vague idea of where we're going, but it could all change in a heartbeat, as we still have a long way to go. So saddle up and let's get this show on the road, shall we?_

 _Special thanks as always to my beta kaoscraze82._

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On days like this, where the sun could melt the flesh clean off a rotting buffalo carcass, Carol Peletier cursed whatever pervert decided that women should be gussied up like dolls.

She propped herself against the bar, a hand on her hip as she surveyed the saloon that had been her husband's. She gave a sigh. Days like this made her wonder why she bothered; what was the point of it all? It was empty, every table in the place empty and forlorn, silent all except for Old Man Greene lying purring in the corner, finally sated after a whole afternoon drinking. At a table in the middle of the room, the sheriff's deputy and the mayor were in the middle of a tense card game, while Theodore, her barkeep, tickled out a relaxed melody on the piano.

The heat was stifling, and in the relative quiet it only seemed to intensify. Her body was screaming for respite. Ribs caged in whalebone and strung so tightly she feared too sharp an exhale would result in a rather unsightly wardrobe malfunction. Layer upon layer of underskirts and suffocating crinoline petticoat as fashion dictated - as her life dictated. It was ridiculous for any self-respecting woman to put herself through this misery every day, especially in this suffocating heat, but people didn't just come here to get drunk – they came to enjoy the scenery. At least that's what her husband Ed used to tell her. Now though, he was gone, and she liked it better that way.

Nobody knew what happened to Ed, or where he went. Most reckoned he was on the run. It was a well known fact that Ed Peletier, or 'The Jackal', had many acquaintances to whom he owed a great deal. Trouble was, he was never forthcoming with repayment of his debts, and his _acquaintances,_ didn't take too kindly to such humiliation. He had a habit of disappearing for months at a time, each time filling Carol with the twisted hope that maybe one of them had caught up to him. It was a sin to wish for such things, but it didn't stop the thoughts creeping in to her mind in the small hours of the morning. How she wished she could be someone else, free from looking over her shoulder, waiting on him coming back. She had been awoken on more than one occasion in the middle of the night by someone hammering the door down looking for him. It scared her sometimes, thinking of the company she knew he attracted. Bandits, rustlers, murderers. The kind of men that wouldn't think twice about taking their blood lust out on a man's wife, if the man himself was nowhere to be found. The thought had kept her awake at night sometimes, listening for every foreign creak on the floorboards, her skin dewy with a sheen of sweat as she held her breath in her bed.

It had taken a while for the dust clouds to settle after his most recent disappearance, but settle they did, and life went on. For a spell, hers was much unchanged, as if he might swagger back through the doors at any minute and pick up again where he left off. It was hard to unlearn habits forged through years of marriage. Every morning she would sit at her dresser, and paint on her party face. She would curl her hair and get dressed, pull on every layer like armour and get into character.

 _He's gone._ Carol reminded herself daily of that fact, but the need for a faceful of powder and blush exerted a fierce power over her hands, a compulsion she had no control over. She knew there was a reason buried in the dark recesses of her mind somewhere, something inside driving her to keep up appearances. It certainly wasn't down to thriving trade. The mayor and sheriff's deputy had been nursing a lemonade since they came in. Probably the only thing she missed about Ed was that despite the people he drew, their money tasted the same in her register, and kept the place going. For how much longer now, she had no idea. She tugged at her corset, trying to adjust its bite around her ribcage.

"Y'alright Miss Carol?"

She hadn't even noticed that Theodore had stopped playing. He appeared at her side, a look of mild concern etched on his gentle features. He was a loyal man, and over the past year or so had become one of her most trusted friends. With Ed gone, she couldn't deny it made her feel safe to know he was there, and any problems she faced now were made so much smaller by his presence at her side. His sheer stature proved an effective deterrent to any passing riff raff that looked like starting trouble. Carol acknowledged him with a resigned twitch of a smile.

"It's so slow," she conceded, leaning on the bar with her chin in her hands. "How am I supposed to make a living when my only customers are either unconscious or nursing a lemonade?"

"Yeah, it's been a tough ol' month," he agreed, surveying the near empty room. "Maybe the stage will bring us in some passin' trade."

Carol raised her eyebrows at him; she knew he only meant well. "Yeah, and maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and be Annie Oakley."

Theodore laughed heartily. "Ma'am, Annie Oakley ain't a patch on you."

Carol chuckled lightly at him and placed a thankful hand on his arm. "What would I do without you?"

"I don't know, Miss Carol. Lucky for you, I ain't fixin' to go no place anytime soon."

"Well I'm glad. Why don't you play me something cheerful? I do love it when you play."

"Yes ma'am."

Carol's eyes followed him as he returned to his piano and resumed playing with an upbeat, bouncy melody. She allowed herself a moment to smile before returning her gaze to the reality of a saloon empty of patrons. Things would need to pick up soon. Ed had left her without a cent to her name, save for the small amount she had saved that he was none the wiser to. She was running out of time, knowing that sooner or later her little nest egg would dry up. It was all that was keeping her afloat right now, with the saloon barely turning a profit. She needed something to turn up, and fast. She eyed her three customers hopelessly, one asleep and two playing cards, before deciding to tidy the unused tables for a third time that day.

"I can't see ya," the sheriff's deputy muttered. "I'll write yer an IOU."

"Aw naw ya don't," the mayor objected, shifting smugly in his seat. "You forget, I've played you before Eugene! You can't see me, you lose."

"Dang! I reckon I gotcha beat, too," the deputy replied, eyeing the other man and weighing up his chances.

" _Ohh_ , do ya now?"

The sheriff's deputy, a much younger and more portly man than his opponent, waged a silent battle in his head as a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. The other man, well respected Mayor of Cherokee, Dale Horvarth, stared him down like a coyote about to pounce on a lamb. The tension simmered between them in the fierce heat, and the deputy hooked a finger into his shirt collar, yanking it away from his throat in an attempt to breathe.

Just as it looked like the sheriff's deputy was about to bet with commodities he could scarcely afford to lose, the saloon doors swung open abruptly and a tall, angry looking man came barrelling on in like a buffalo. The jovial piano melody came to a halt. Colour drained from Deputy Eugene's face as the sheriff's eye's locked with his, and the surly big man spat a chaw missile into the pot beside the door without breaking his glare. The clang as it hit the pot made Eugene's ears ring and his throat dry up. His goose was well and truly cooked. The Sheriff thudded steadily towards the table, pulling up his gun belt as he walked. His deputy stood clumsily, almost forgetting that his chair was tucked tight under the table, nearly sending Mayor Horvarth sprawling as he knocked against the table.

"Sh-sheriff Ford, s-sir… I can-"

"Hush your mouth," Sheriff Ford growled in a venomous drawl that brooked no argument. "I don't care a continental for none o' your excuses today. We got work to do an' you're sittin' coolin' your heels in here. Git your coffee boilin' hide back to the Sheriff's Office, 'fore I lose my temper."

"Y-yes sir, right away sir."

The Sheriff eyeballed his bumbling deputy as he skulked past, hat in his hand and eyes averted like a dog waiting to be kicked. His glare turned to the Mayor, currently shuffling the deck of cards with his back to him, seemingly unperturbed at the shadow the much larger man cast over him.

"Care for a game, Sheriff?"

The sheriff snorted irritably. "We got more important things to discuss Mr Mayor, if you would afford me that courtesy."

The mayor's hands stilled and he turned slightly, his interest peaked. "Have a seat."

The piano started to ring out gently again in the corner as Sheriff Ford circled the table and filled the seat his deputy had been sitting in. He removed his hat and laid it on the table sombrely, the barest flicker of distress infiltrating his stern expression. Mayor Horvarth put down his deck, the sheriff's grave face immediately removing any trace of gaiety there had been at the table. The sheriff sighed heavily and ran a tired hand over his moustached face.

"What ills ya, Sheriff?" The mayor asked reluctantly, not sure that he wanted to know.

The sheriff paused for a moment, the hesitation clear on his face. With every second of silence the mayor's gut grew heavy.

"They found him, early this mornin', couple of Axel's boys. Bastards left him at the hangin' tree, strung up like crow bait. From what I heard, it wa'nt pretty what they took down. God knows how long the poor son of a bitch was up there-"

He hadn't even heard her approach their table but he knew she'd heard more than a lady should. Carol stopped in her tracks and the sheriff read the shock in her expression. "C-can I get you gentlemen something to drink?"

"No Ma'am, thank you."

He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile but felt more like an apologetic grimace. Carol paused a moment, unsure, and with a nod and a smile she turned to make her way back to the bar. They were alone again, and an uncomfortable nausea hung in the humid air between the two men.

"Sweet Marie…" Mayor Horvarth slumped in his seat, looking positively feverish and dazed. He couldn't remember a time where it had been so lawless, and it made him shudder to consider just how bad it might get. "What kinda low down, dirty son of a-"

The Sheriff shook his head once in dismissal, staring into the mottled woodgrain of the table as if it concealed the answers. "I do know that whoever it was, there was more'n one of 'em, an' they weren't alone."

"Eh, I don't follow-"

"Someone was watchin' 'em. One of Axel's boys found another set of tracks in the dirt. I tell ya, it's one despicable dog that watches some poor bastard in a fix like that an' does nothin'."

Mayor Horvarth wiped his brow with his handkerchief, the discomfort of the heat twisting his stomach in knots. He leaned forward, clasping his hands and fixed the sheriff with a pained look. "Well whoever it was saw 'em, was either makin' sure the deed was done…"

"Or..?"

" _Or_ this fella knows somethin' we don't. I got a bad feelin' in my bones about this. There's somethin' brewin' Sheriff, an' it ain't nothin' good."

"Maybe so Mr Mayor, but I do know one thing…" Sheriff Ford picked up his hat from the table and scraped back his chair to leave. "I ain't gonna rest until I find the pond life responsible for killin' that boy."

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 _Thanks for reading :) love it? Hate it? Either way let me know ;)_


	3. Chapter Two - No Man's Land

_Well howdy folks! Hope we're all well! Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far. Chapters for this story will be shorter than you're used to from me, but it's just playing out in fits and starts in my head. So without further ado, let's beat some dirt!_

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Chapter Two – No Man's Land

A few day's ride north of the sleepy town of Cherokee, beneath the towering rocky presence of the mountains, Daryl Dixon lay dozing with his hat over his eyes and his hands tucked into his armpits.

The sweltering high noon sun had baked the dirt dry, and what little grass sprouted in pitiful, dry tufts underfoot was soon seared yellow. Any living thing with a shred of sense had long since scurried or galloped off, and those foolish or brave enough to remain lurked under rocks and in crevices, in hiding - or waiting to pounce. It was desolate and barren, void of the evidence of life, as bleak and unforgiving a place as anyone could imagine in their loneliest hours. A place where it never rained.

A wilderness, of outlaws and vagrants, a no-man's land that swallowed up those ignorant enough to underestimate it. Scavengers, gunslingers, murderers… this was their realm. As far as the land stretched out in all directions, skeletons long picked clean by the buzzards dried in a baking glare that seemed to hiss. Half sunken skulls winked out from under the dirt, grinning up at the ever-spinning sky.

They had been travelling almost a week now, and with supplies starting to dwindle drastically, time was running out to find a watering hole and somewhere to rest up a while. Foregoing feeding themselves was looking like a real possibility; the horses were no good to them dead, and they sure as hell wouldn't last long out here without water. They had to keep moving.

For now though, he was enjoying a little siesta under the dappled shade of a few foolish, dead trees. He lay propped against the dry trunk and let himself drift a little, his ears still tuned into the world around him. His mount whickered gently beside him, occasionally tail flicking at flies and gracing him with a welcome breeze. For a moment it was almost bliss. Almost.

"Rise and shine, sleepin' beauty."

Daryl didn't stir.

"Hey," a gruff voice cut through the heat, breaking as a foot connected lazily with Daryl's leg. "I said git up!"

"Fuck off Merle," he retorted from under his hat.

"I ain't playin' baby brother, move yer ass." Daryl heard him adjusting his mount's tack. "We're movin' out."

Daryl remained stubbornly fixed in his spot, trying to savour every last second of the solace he found under the brim of his hat. Eventually he huffed out a growl in grudged defeat and hauled himself up off of the ground, his eyes clamping shut against the daylight. He shifted his hat on his head to offer some protection from the glare and bent to grab his gun belt. He'd enjoyed a brief respite from its relentless digging into his hips. He turned to regard his brother as he stretched up like a cat, savouring the delicious cracking in his back. He'd been laying on the hard ground so long his ass had gone to sleep too.

"Where's One Eyed Willy?" He asked sardonically.

Merle didn't look up, just carried on adjusting and tugging at his horse's saddle, but Daryl detected a warning in his demeanour, in the flatness of his expression, totally void of any humour. Ever since they'd become mixed up with The Governor and his posse, Daryl had noticed his brother slowly slipping in front of his eyes, and right now he was just plain pissing him off. When The Governor shouted jump Merle didn't even bother to ask how high anymore, he leapt blindly, like a damn lemming off of a cliff. If he was trying to impress the one eyed man, it seemed to be working.

Merle had moved right up the pecking order to be his right hand man soon after they had joined the group. The Governor had clearly seen something in the elder Dixon brother that might be of use to him, and he was right. There seemed to be something the one eyed man was hiding. Daryl had picked up on it pretty quickly, and as sure as he was that Merle had too, something about his older brother's reaction – the way he dismissed his suspicions – told him he knew more than he pretended to. Daryl had done his best to brush off the unease trying to take root in his mind. Part of him thought he knew his brother better than he knew himself, but as the days grew hotter and they faced more hardships, he saw flashes in Merle's eyes that clouded his mind with doubt. Whatever it was, Daryl didn't like it. He didn't like this seemingly _merry_ band. It would do him no favours to cause ructions. Not until he had reason to.

Merle swung himself up onto his horse, cutting an imposing figure all in black, from his hat all the way down to the pointed toes of his boots. Even his spurs appeared black, reflecting the sheer ebony of the animal's coat. They were quite the intimidating pair; the big black stallion looked like it could ride right through mountains. Daryl hated it – obnoxious big sonofabitch had always eyeballed him like a raging bull, flaring its nostrils like it could blow him away with one snort. It dwarfed the other horses, and they tended to give it a wide berth. Daryl was just fine with that, he didn't want to be anywhere near the maniac.

"We ain't got time to waste so why don't ya quit yer lips flappin' an' saddle up?"

Merle's urgency was lost on Daryl. He lit up a smoke and leaned back against the tree trunk, stifling a yawn. He could feel his brother's disapproval rippling towards him and decided to savour it for a minute before he thought about getting on his horse.

"How much longer ya think we gonna last out here, hmm? Followin' 'im around from dried up hole to dried up hole?" Daryl blew steady streams of smoke out of his nose.

"We'll last as long as we gotta," Merle assured him, bouncing in the saddle as the beast pranced irritably underneath him.

"Yeah well…" Daryl took another long draw on his smoke. "…way things are goin' that ain't gonna be for much longer. Few more days an' the vultures might be pickin' my bones… or yours."

"Look he knows what he's doin', alright? Just keep yer trap shut an' do what he says."

"What happened to you?" Daryl exclaimed, the order riling him so much he threw his half burnt smoke in the dirt. "Huh? I thought ya were done takin' orders, least that's what ya said when-"

"Don't." Merle warned. "This ain't the time nor the place for this conversation baby brother."

"No, y'know what, you're right. S'never the fuckin' time or place." Daryl swung an irate arm at him in dismissal.

"I ain't got time for this, just get on your horse Daryl and git goin'."

Daryl scowled right through him into thin air, his arms instinctively finding their place in his armpits again as Merle jabbed his volatile mount into a canter that made the ground shake under his feet. His eyes followed them as they thundered past. Who the hell did Merle think he was? Talking down to him like he was still knee high to a grasshopper. He was sick of being treated like some hanger-on, just along for the ride. Not for the first time on their travels, Daryl considered what life would be like if he just went out on his own. All he had in this miserable world was his brother, or at least that's what he'd thought. Now, though, he didn't feel quite so sure.

He tightened his horse's girth and sprung himself into the saddle. His eyes scanned the sprawling horizon which seemed to go on forever in all directions, and in that moment he wanted to just ride until he ran out of land. An itch began to burn under his skin, willing him to whip around in the opposite direction and leave Merle behind in a veil of dust. It would be so easy to just walk away. Nobody to answer to, free to go wherever the wind decided to blow that day. He could find somewhere to settle, maybe show the world that he could be something other than Merle Dixon's brother – guilty by association. He could be anything, or anyone.

Maddeningly, the urge receded and he spurred his horse on after Merle, hating himself for being fool enough to hope that one day, he might get his brother back.


	4. Chapter Three - Without a Trace

_I love Baberaham and Eugene. Nuff said._

* * *

The stiffness in his back and the pins and needles spreading down his left leg every time he moved his foot, told Sheriff Abraham Ford that he had indeed been sitting at his desk too long.

It was late, he supposed. He had been in his office staring at the same papers for a few hours now, and his eyes were starting to feel the familiar sting of tiredness. He slumped back in his chair, hefting out a great sigh that rattled his vocal chords as it left his throat. Eugene looked up with a start, the unexpected exclamation jolting the deputy out of his daydream. Abraham ran a hand over his face, smoothing out his moustache as it disappeared under his chin, a mannerism he repeated many times throughout the day, and stared at the wall in front of him.

He let his eyes roam over the stonework, following every groove as it disappeared behind yet another _Wanted_ poster, some of which had been up so long they were now starting to yellow and curl at the edges. They were tokens, mementos of conquests past. The wayward men that stared back at him had always been a great tonic for a bad day, refreshing his ego, but at the moment, that wall was his main source of annoyance. He still hadn't found the person responsible for the grisly event that had taken place recently, namely the case of the man Axel's boys had found hanging from a tree a few miles out of town.

That one had really turned his stomach. He'd been to see the man's body – or what was left of it – and it hadn't been pleasant. Abraham didn't recognise him as one of the locals, but he'd gotten the feeling that he knew him from somewhere. People passed through Cherokee all the time - it wasn't so far-fetched that he might have seen him before. He had been a youngish man, healthy too by the looks of him and before the crows had pecked jagged, bloody gouges in his face, he had been fairly handsome too. There was a ring of bluish black around his neck where it had bruised under the choke of the noose, the same around his wrists where he'd been tied. The thought of him hanging there all night with the scavengers picking at him, painted blue under the moonlight, made Abraham want to empty his guts all over the desk. He'd been someone's father, or brother… maybe even someone's son.

Underneath the nausea, Abraham could feel his fists balling and his jaw clenching. It was hard to deal with the notion that he'd failed to protect the people of his town. They were looking to him for reassurance and to keep them safe, but the tight, anxious faces passing him since on the street told him he was falling monumentally short. It was a situation he'd never found himself in up until now. Sheriff Abraham Ford always got his man, always. But right now, he was taking his sweet time about it. The only evidence he had to go on was a set of hoof prints that had all but blown away in the wind, and he struggled to think how he could even match up the prints to the horse that made them. It was a ridiculously far-fetched shot in the dark, and every time he thought about it, the darkness deepened around those prints. Even if he did by some miracle find the mystery rider, what were the chances of them telling him anything? What were the chances of them even _knowing_ anything? The anxiety writhed inside him; he knew the only other thing he had to go on was that maddening hunch, driving him crazy like an itch, and it made him seethe.

A feeling broke through his fog, the feeling of eyes on him. Just beyond his field of vision, Abraham could _feel_ Eugene staring at him, his pasty round face drawn tight with anxiety, no doubt waiting for an eruption of some kind. He felt for the younger man a little. He was a kind soul, ever-faithful and loyal, if a little clumsy sometimes. But he never faltered, not ever. He'd stuck by his Sheriff when anyone else would have bolted for the hills - although he was pretty sure Eugene had thought about it a few times. Abraham knew he'd been rough on the man recently, and none of it had been his fault. He knew in truth he was mad at himself, because he was losing this particular battle, and lashing out at Eugene just seemed to be a force of habit now. He was easy meat; he just rolled with the proverbial punches and still turned up the next day ready to go another round. Abraham had always been rough around the edges, but of late it had been too easy to snap for no reason, and Eugene always seemed to take the first bullet. He hated that.

"Why don't you go on home now?" Abraham gestured towards the door, his eyes never leaving the faces on the wall.

Eugene eyed him warily, like he was afraid to move even though he'd been given permission to leave. "S-sir, are you-"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Go on, s'late."

"No, beggin' your pardon sir. I was gonna ask… if you were alright." Eugene clammed up as Abraham's eyes fell upon him sharply. "You've been starin' at that wall for a disproportionate length of time, sir."

Abraham felt the deep furrow in his brow ease a little. He hadn't realised he was scowling, and a pang of remorse bloomed inside at the flinch from his deputy. "How long is it Eugene, since you became my deputy?"

"Eleven months and three weeks to the day sir."

"Right, an' how many times in those eleven months and three weeks have I let you go home early? Or take the day off?"

"Uh…" Eugene rolled his eyes to the ceiling, nervously wracking his brains for a number that didn't exist.

"None," Abraham grunted. "The answer you're lookin' for is none. Now go home, ya spend too damn long here as it is."

Eugene hesitated for a moment before he obediently scraped back his chair and stood. Abraham heaved an inward sigh of relief that he looked to be leaving without much further persuasion. Right now he just wanted to be left alone, in peace to figure this out. He didn't need to feel like more shit on top of the vast ocean of shit he was already in the middle of. He needed solitude. He needed answers. He needed…

"Why in the hell are you still here?" Abraham sighed, his eyes snapping to the man hovering anxiously nearby. "There ain't nothin' here for ya to do."

Eugene fidgeted with the brim of his hat, licking his lips nervously, like he'd better taste his words before he went mumbling them at the sheriff. "Sir… I know this recent heinous crime is deeply troubling, causing you profuse amounts of anxiety and stress… but I- I have every confidence that justice will be served, sir."

The tightness in his facial muscles, which had been pulling into that scowl again, softened with Eugene's attempts to reassure him. He was the one who was supposed to carry the weight of everyone else's worry on his shoulders, he was supposed to bear it alone and show everyone that their sheriff was a wall of strength. And here he was, slumped in his chair, shit out of answers, listening to words of wisdom from his deputy. He had to admire the man's faith.

"Glad one of us does." He chuckled pitifully. "Thank you, Eugene."

With a cautious twitch of a smile, Eugene placed his hat on top of his head and nodded his departure, opening the door and stepping out into the dusk. Abraham stared after him as the door swung shut in the breeze, pausing briefly before returning his attention to one of the posters on the wall. Black, vacant eyes leered back at him, making his nerves bristle under his skin. He stood up and went over to the gallery, zoning in on the image he'd seen behind closed lids as he tossed and turned in his bed at night.

He'd disappeared without a trace, and as the weeks had melted into months, the appertaining rage had become maddening. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that this man was involved. Wanted for holding up a stage, bank robberies in various states, cattle rustling. As he glared at the face on the wall, he was certain that these crimes were just the tip of the iceberg. Eyes like that could hide things, dark things, from almost anyone. Almost. Abraham Ford had looked into the eyes of enough murderers to know _that_ look. He'd been close enough to smell the blood in their nostrils, hear the gunfire and the cries of their victims as they fell. Looking at this shadow of humanity, he could taste the metallic tang of iron lurking behind his own throat. He didn't know how, but he had to find out more. How did someone just disappear like that? Especially with every bounty hunter or lawman for miles around tearing up the plains in search of him? Every thought Abraham had seemed to lead him down these avenues of investigation that all brought him to the same dead end. Nobody knew anything. He'd already questioned the wanted man's wife, but it had turned up nothing. She'd just gaped back at him vacuously, claiming indifference and paying him no mind as she'd mopped the floor. But something, a flickered lapse in her concentration, had allowed enough to seep out that it was bugging him. She knew _something_.

He walked to the door, leaning his arms against the frame as he paused to gather his thoughts. He took a lungful of cool evening air, casting his gaze further up the street, where the faint lamp light flickered and jumped behind the veiled upper window of the large building on the corner. A breeze whipped up, pulling a swirl of dust into the air, seemingly snuffing out the dim light.

 _Tomorrow_. For now he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and drift into a deep sleep, but tomorrow, he would go and talk to her again.

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 _Let me know what ya think!_


	5. Chapter Four - Gods and Monsters

_A/N: At the risk of being very cringey, I feel the need to let out a rip-roaring YEEEEEEEHAAAAAW! In celebration an awesome ep last night, and also passing my driving test today at long bloody last, here is another chapter of cowboy shenanigans for you lovely lot. Just FYI, I have taken a little liberty with some details i.e someone being Mexican. I wrote this with The Good, The Bad and The Ugly playing in my head. I have no other excuse._

 _Disclaimer: All characters are property of Kirkman and his cronies._

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Dusk cast its orange haze across the land, the sky stained blood red in places as the sun dipped below the horizon.

The Governor's group, six including himself, rode in slightly staggered formation across the barren terrain, a passing gust picking up scouring particles of grit, blowing against mane and tail.

There were three other men aside from The Governor and the Dixon brothers. There was Martinez, a Mexican that had been with The Governor's group as it had been about six months previous when they had joined, and who Daryl still wasn't sure he trusted. Then there was Joe. He'd been the leader of another group until they had run him out and he'd found himself riding solo. Daryl couldn't help but think there was a genuine quality to him, not enough for him to ever exchange more than a nod with the other man, but he at least kept himself to himself, and Daryl liked that.

It was more than could be said for the last man, Dave. He really didn't trust that son of a bitch. There was something in his tight, piggy eyes that made Daryl's hackles stand up. He couldn't put his finger on it yet, but there was definitely something there, glinting behind the black, and in the points of his teeth when he smiled. Daryl knew he wasn't to be trusted - and the other man knew that he knew. In the few weeks since Dave had joined them, he had tried on several occasions to befriend Daryl, attempting to ride beside him and open the lines of communication. Daryl had simply kicked his mount on ahead, the mere sound of the man's voice in his ear prickling his skin with irritation.

Today thankfully, for the moment at least, Daryl seemed to be getting peace. The two outcasts brought up the rear, and Daryl rode beside Martinez who lagged slightly behind him, with Merle up front, filling his usual role as The Governor's aide.

Daryl felt like a brother five times removed these days. To the passing stranger it might look as though the two men in front were joined by blood; one was rarely far from the other, and Daryl was privy to only what he needed to know. Even now they rode just out of earshot, and it made a fierce heat simmer in Daryl's gut. There was a time when it was just him and Merle against the rest of the world, when they were out on their own, and Merle had as good as promised him it would always be that way. _Just you an' me baby brother, no-one else._ He'd had no reason to believe any different, because he didn't have anything or anyone else. Merle was all he had left.

When they'd set out on their own they hadn't been looking for anything in particular. They just needed to escape, go wherever the horizon took them. Then one day, the horizon had brought them to this group, and everything had changed. Every fibre of Daryl's body had screamed at him to just keep riding, but they had welcomed Merle like they'd known him forever, and Daryl was accepted for the same reason he always had been: he was Merle's brother. Daryl had had no choice but to fall into line and keep his trap shut. They'd seen plenty men like these in their travels and he knew when to pick his battles. The rest of them were henchmen, nothing more. When they were beating the trail like this, more often than not Daryl only ever saw the back of Merle's head.

The disappearance of the sun left a maddening red glare on the tips of the rock faces, illuminating tumbleweeds as they trundled past in the dry wind. It was getting cold now, and Daryl huddled under his poncho for warmth, trying but failing miserably to ignore the chill settling into his bones. His horse plodded on like a mule, never seeming to show any signs of fatigue, despite the fact that today they hadn't stopped for more than five minutes. He had a quiet admiration for the beast. His ass was numb in the saddle, his inner thighs nipping like hell from the constant rubbing of his chaps. His back ached from being sat in the same damn position all damn day. His eyes stung with the bite of the grit whipping at his face, yet his faithful mount marched on regardless.

Daryl cast a disinterested glance to his right, for no reason other than to keep himself awake. Martinez looked very different to a man that had spent a long day riding in the blistering sun. Unlike Daryl, now slightly hunched in his seat and trying to keep the cold out, Martinez looked completely absent, like he was somewhere else altogether. Against the bloody backdrop of sky starting to blur into night, the Mexican was almost a completely black silhouette. His modest sombrero perched jauntily on his head, and it was only now that Daryl realised he'd never seen him without it. A heavy, patterned poncho gathered in a crumpled pool around his broad shoulders, that he hadn't bothered to pull around himself in the cold. It was like he didn't feel the lash of the wind.

He piqued Daryl's curiosity. He didn't know much about the man, having never held what he would call an actual conversation with him. He knew that he hated Merle, that was for damn sure, and Martinez made no attempt to hide it. The two had come to blows once before, in a dispute that Daryl never got to hear the details of, and afterwards the two men had given each other a wide berth. There had, however, been a rope of tension between them since, and Daryl often wondered who would be the first to yank on it and start shooting up a shitstorm. The Mexican's eyes flared crimson in the dying glow, and Daryl tried to dismiss an uneasy twinge in his belly. Martinez seemed to centre his attention on the man up ahead in front of him.

Much to Daryl's relief, The Governor decided that they would rest for the night. They found themselves in a secluded, rocky cove that provided some shelter from the elements. The gradual reappearance of greenery gave Daryl hope that surely they couldn't be far away from the promise of civilisation. Trees meant water, and water meant not dying in the desert.

Daryl set a fire and managed to lodge his knife in an unsuspecting prairie dog. It didn't exactly hit the spot, having to split it five ways, but it was better than nothing. Martinez didn't eat. He picked a spot against the hard rock face and turned into it, shutting them out. The night was bitter and even under his heavy poncho and beside the crackle of the fire, Daryl's teeth chattered together. He quietly regarded the sleeping man, unable to put him out of his mind. There was something about him that he just couldn't shake, a feeling that even though he was asleep, he was dangerous, like a rattlesnake. He didn't stir, or shiver. Whatever had a hold of him, Daryl thought, it made him almost inhuman. He watched the other man's outline for signs that he was even breathing, and found none.

Across the fire he could just make out the hushed voices of his brother and the one eyed man. His eyes fell on Merle, and the way he looked as he listened to The Governor, his eyes full of admiration, like he was a damn god. He felt a sting at the sight, and not for the first time, he felt like an outsider… like he didn't belong. Is this is how it would always be, running at Merle's heels and taking whatever scraps of attention he could get? His brother was never coming back, and he supposed he had known it all along, he just hadn't wanted to admit it. He was alone, and always would be. He'd been so damn stupid. Merle's eyes shifted directly to him, and almost as if he had read his brother's mind, his lips curled ever so slightly in a smile that made him feel sick.

Swallowing down the lump burning in his throat, Daryl shuffled around and put them to his back, trying to get comfortable on the cold, hard ground. A hot bead of salt gathered in the corner of his eye, but he refused to let it fall. He blinked it away and clamped his eyes shut against the grating hushed chatter of the two men by the fire.

Sunrise. He would leave at sunrise.

* * *

In a rush of stolen breath, thrashing limbs and blankets, Carol woke.

It was her own breath, shredding the silence of the room as it burst from her lungs that had pulled her out of sleep. Blindly clawing at the bed sheets as the veil of her nightmare lifted, Carol came to. She choked and coughed, the pressure around her throat easing as sleep rushed away from her, taking with it the hand responsible. As the pale ghost of the moon crept through the window, Carol swivelled her head around, placing every item in her room, the certainty of each one's location a firm anchor to reality. _It was just a dream._

With her mind reassured, Carol lay down again, her breath leaving her in relieved wisps. It was just a dream.

It had taken her forever to get to sleep. When Carol was a girl of only four or five years old, she'd lain awake for hours in her bed at night, with the bedclothes pulled up over her nose so that only her eyes peeked out. She'd been so scared of the dark that she would light the lamp again after her mother and father had gone to bed - the box of matches she kept hidden in her nightstand were her little spark of reassurance. How she'd shivered under that blanket, her little blue eyes darting to every shadowy corner in frightened examination. It was silly that even now she felt like that same little girl when night time came around. The box of matches in her nightstand right now were testament to that.

Things could hide in the dark, and for the most part, that was a blessing. There were things that didn't belong in the light, monsters – _things_ \- that could hurt you if you were to look upon their faces for too long. As Carol had grown older and the world had changed, she realised that the monsters changed too. The kind she feared as a little girl in her bed at night were far less frightening than the kind she had shared her bed with years later. At least the ones her young eyes gave shape to in the pitch black never quite managed to touch or hurt her. Their grotesque hands never made it past her closet door where she often envisaged them lurking. They didn't hiss putrid breath in her face or wrap mutant fingers around her throat.

That particular monster hadn't visited her in person for a while, but for now at least, it lived in her head, in her nightmares. It lurked like a jackal, always sniffing, looking for a way in. Being alone in the dark, alone with yourself, it was hard to find a hiding place. In day light, it was easy to chase it away, scratch it out with the sweeping of a broom or the scrubbing of a pot. It had no power in the clarity of daytime, when the blazing light of the sun seemed to make everything better. But when the black drapes fell across the sky, the world became still, and she could hear the faint scratch-scratch-scratching at her door.

In the few months since he had gone AWOL, Carol had had recurring night terrors, waking in the night gasping for breath like she'd been holding her breath underwater for hours. More often than not she would wake in the early hours, her night dress plastered to her skin with sweat, trembling like a wet dog. On one occasion quite early on, Theodore had been frightened half to death and come into her room, gun drawn, thinking she was being attacked in her bed. She'd been so ashamed the next day for causing such a commotion. There were recurrences of that night, but as time had passed, things slowly seemed to calm, and the worst noise she produced at night was a gasp, like the one that had woken her tonight.

She turned in her bed to face the window, hoping the last slivers of the setting moon would banish the darkness in her thoughts. He was gone, but he always came back, and the thought of it made her feel green with nausea, because it wasn't _just_ him. He attracted people like a rotting carcass drew flies and vultures. There would always be someone looking for him, always one that didn't like the answers she gave, and she would always be looking over her damn shoulder. Looking for the flicker of realisation in someone's eyes that would ultimately end it all.

It had been a close call, with the sheriff and his god forsaken questions. Of course she had played it dumb as best she could, giving him the same vague one word answers she always did, praying it would be enough to hold him off for another while. He was always sniffing around, trying to turn up a new stone, hoping that this time she would remember something, an associate or a place he went a lot. The truth of it though, was that Carol knew very little of her husband's whereabouts outside of Cherokee. He would just randomly appear after months of absence, carrying on as if he had never been away, and just as randomly he would vanish again. He was a very hard man to pin down, and after his latest absence, the need to pin him down had grown dramatically. He had been busy, making his fair share of enemies on both sides of the law, which in turn had made things difficult for her. She was struggling to retain any sense of normalcy with the sheriff breathing down her neck or the middle-of-the-night visits from irate strangers looking for him. Strange men banging on her door in the middle of the night she could handle. They didn't scare her quite so much as the sheriff.

The glint amid the ravenous green of his eyes that for a moment almost caught her unawares, had her on edge. Whatever it was he thought he had found in her answers, she knew at once that she hadn't seen the last of it. He would be back to chip away, trying to pry his way into her thoughts. He would find nothing, though. She would make sure of that.

She _had_ to make sure of that.

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Thanks as always to kaoscraze82! Loveoo!


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